


Friday Night

by ziyazu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Choose Your Own Hale, F/F, Future Fic, Oral Sex, Possible AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziyazu/pseuds/ziyazu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mattress dips suddenly under new weight, and she turns her head towards it, smiling, eyes still closed. The satin slide of skin on skin edges a soft, happy moan out of her before it slips away, and as she twists to find it again, thighs slipping sideways, knees opening blindly around others to cradle familiarly narrow hips. Her fingers curl sweetly over delicate ribs and smooth, long arms, and she sighs happily, opening her eyes just enough to see the smirk she knows is waiting for her.</p><p>"You know, if you act any more like a cat, you may actually turn into one. I regret buying this bed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday Night

**Author's Note:**

> The Hale sister is never specified, nor is her reason for being in NYC. Choose Cora or an alive Laura, up to you. :)

The best thing about the Hale loft is the bed.

Lydia will never like New York, will only ever tolerate Boston, will always miss the blue California skies. She will never pretend to understand the allure of grime-encrusted winter snow and urine-streaked sidewalks and skyscraper-lined gridlock, but when she finally sheds her last few layers and collapses naked into the soft nest of pillows and merino blankets, it's almost enough to make her forgive the sleet still melting on her boots by the door.

Ugh, she really should have left them on the mat. She hopes they don't stain the hardwood. She... doesn't really care.

All she cares about right now is how unutterably blissful being warm is, and how beautifully full of creamy curry a PhD candidate can be. She ponders that for a moment, curls her mind around the numbers, works the figures lazily in her head. The size of a standard takeout container, potential stomach volume, the average rate of human digestion...

She frowns, the relative ratio and pH of stomach acids and the chemical makeup of coconut cream eluding her for the moment, and she surrenders, offering the universe a very non-precise, non-mathematical answer ( _very_ full). She stretches then, rolling over and smushing her face into a pillow and sighing happily, not giving even the slightest shit about whatever makeup she might have left.  It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that it's Friday night, her jealously-guarded and highly original doctoral proofs are locked tightly away in her cramped MIT office, the agony of the weekly train ride north is behind her, and the last shreds of worry iron out smooth as she closes her eyes against the soft streetlight creeping through the shutters on the giant windows by the bed. She snuggles down and hums, because it's not too lat and she's not too tired, but catnaps never hurt anyone and her nose is still cold. Stupid East Coast winters.

The mattress dips suddenly under new weight, and she turns her head towards it, smiling, eyes still closed. The satin slide of skin on skin edges a soft, happy moan out of her before it slips away, and as she twists to find it again, thighs slipping sideways, knees opening blindly around others to cradle familiarly narrow hips. Her fingers curl sweetly over delicate ribs and smooth, long arms, and she sighs happily, opening her eyes just enough to see the smirk she knows is waiting for her.

"You know, if you act any more like a cat, you may actually turn into one. I regret buying this bed."

"If you didn't have this bed, I wouldn't come up here on weekends at all."

The smirk turns into a pout. "I thought New York was growing on you. I bought you curry! _Good_ curry. Boston does not have curry that good."

"Boston doesn't have you. That's the only thing we need. Well, you and sunshine. I miss Vitamin D."

“Get a sunlamp.”

“Get a beach house.”

“You get yourself a beach house. I have the swanky Manhattan loft, I’m set.”

“Your surly brother has the swanky Manhattan loft, and you know when Stiles comes to grad school here next year they’re taking it back.”

A lazy shrug. “Guess I’ll just have to come live with you, then.”

 “Bring the bed or you’re never getting in the door, werewolf.”

“Find a more soundproof apartment or we’ll be evicted the first week, banshee."

Lydia laughs, and traces a finger over high rounded cheekbones and a delicate dark eyebrow. "How soundproof is it here? Had many complaints? Because if you don't plan on making me scream, it's going to be a very boring weekend. I'm not going to Ellis Island again, dingy ferries give me hives."

Her neck tingles as lips trail down it, the scrape of teeth raising goosebumps and a delicious shudder she feels all the way down in her toes. She both knows and doesn't know what comes next, still so new and electric, nerves still tangling in her belly the way her fingers tangle in long brown hair. She's still getting used to her breasts pushing sweetly into other breasts, hipbones sliding against skin soft and warm.

She craves it now, the way smaller arms hold her, the echo of hands on her shoulders, her stomach, lower. The catch of breath when fingertips slide in and retreat, warm and silky wet. The way hungry kisses from lips sweet with fruity lip gloss leave her breathless and panting before they disappear down her body.

The press of lips on her inner thigh sends trills up her spine, and she heaves in a shaky breath, waiting. Her hips twitch up in anticipation, her throat tight with sounds, and she doesn't know, she never knows if they will be words or sighs or shattering shrieks, and like every time, she's long past caring. The ache in her chest rises with the need for more of this, always more, golden eyes flashing up at her in the near-darkness. The sudden bright touch of tongue sends her blood surging, a flush coming deep on her cheeks and her chest, and it doesn't stop. Circling and sucking, playing and pulling her to the edge, bringing echos of a scream rising inside her, rippling like headlights on a twisty hill, seen from across a dark valley.

Her eyes blink unseeingly at the pipe-lined ceiling, eyelashes fluttering, her breasts heaving skywards as she arches up again and again. Nearly there, her voice joins the raptures of the police sirens that pass by them on the street below, urgent and echoing, the brick walls throwing the sound back into her own ears. Nearly...

She knows her hair is everywhere, curls askew and damp, and she feels the cramps coming on in her fingers as she grips the blankets too-tightly, holding on, holding back...

And the hands on her hips squeeze lovingly as she lets go.

 


End file.
